It was
difficult enough adjusting to my brother living so close by. Now he is living
with us, in our rickety Boho house with no spare room, I am finding it hard to
breathe.
All the
things that made our house so charming and quirky – its precarious steps to the
front door, its funny changes of level in flooring and the steep narrow
staircase, all these things are potentially lethal for someone like my brother. The loo is upstairs and I'm terrified that he will trip or fall on the stairs or in our clapped out bathroom that I have been longing to replace for years but have
never quite been able to afford or get round to. Until you see him swinging madly from wall to wall just trying to walk a few steps, or feel the sheer force of his weight when he falls, you might not understand.
Our
original mid century dining table and chairs, dad’s pride and joy in the 70s,
on their last legs after decades of children swinging on them, just about able
to bear my brother’s weight but I hear them creaking and fear for his safety.
He’s sleeping on the sofa bed in the front room; we have previously given him
our own bed and slept downstairs ourselves but Simon has a tough week at work
and we made the executive decision that he needed our firm comfy mattress more
than Nick – who these days drinks so much that he falls into bed like a stone.
Nevertheless.
This is not a safe place for him to be for long.
And I’ve
not even mentioned the sheer relentlessness of having to wait on him like a
maid. At home he can just about shove a ready meal into the microwave but he no
longer even boils the kettle because these things are becoming too difficult
for him as well as dangerous.
Or the very
real fear that if he stays here for long, he’ll do the same to our plumbing
too; smash the cistern, dislodge the taps, pull the banister off the wall,
dislodge the sockets, break yet another precious cup or dish. It’s all just
stuff, I know. But when your world is gradually falling apart around you, it’s
nice to have your stuff.
Social
Services do not see it this way. As far as they’re concerned, my brother is not
homeless, he’s with family, getting all his needs met, it might be very far
from ideal but they do not see it as a problem.
By
providing so much help, by tidying up after him, cooking his meals, doing his
washing, collecting his meds and taking him to appointments, by doing the 1001
small things that I do every day to keep him afloat, it’s one less person that
the welfare state has to worry about. And fair enough – of course there are
people who have no-one (I’ve seen them for years so I should know) and they
take priority. But I didn’t realize to what extent we’d be ignored if if it
looked as if we were managing.
We are
managing, but only just. By trying to make life happy and pleasant for Nick, it
seems I have further estranged him from the services that he is soon going to
need.
I think I
have really shot myself in the foot.
